Through Blackest Night
by CaCoPhOnY Of ScReAmS
Summary: The night was just like all the others. We sat in that alleyway, trying to keep hidden from those villagers who wanted us dead. I couldn't stop them. I couldn't do anything but try and keep us safe. DARK AGES AU, Human Names used, No Pairing!


**Well, I figure I should post this instead of letting the file rot away. I wrote this for English class last year, but it wasn't Hetalia originally. I used two of my original characters, and only after did I realise how well they fit England and France.**

**Certain liberties were taken: France is younger than England in this, because the British character was the older in the original. This story is told completely from Arthur's POV.**

**-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-**

It's not easy being an orphan. Being orphaned, homeless, without work, and hungry just made it worse. I hadn't always been like this- homeless, I mean. I used to have a family. They're all dead now, and have been for the past few weeks.

I was there when the other villagers started marching down the street, angry and shouting. I saw the ghostly light flickering against the buildings that lined the street as they raised their torches in defiance.

They came to my house in the dead of a clear night. The moon was hung high and half-lit, any clouds that were once present had scattered off to the far reaches of the heavens. I was awake for the fifth time that night, roused from my sleep by the breathy call of a noisy owl perching outside. By that time, the light from the torches was just starting to creep its way up to my windowsill, the warmth from the flames felt as cold as ice as I realized that they were gathering around my house.

Immediately, I had sprung from my bed, slipping on my trousers and running barefoot to the room where my parents slept.

"Father!" I whispered urgently, "Father, Mother, wake up!" I shook my father's shoulders roughly, causing both of them to wake with a start.

"Boy, what is it?" my mother asked, peering blearily at me from her propped-up position.

"Men! They've gathered in front of the house," I said, casting a glance over my shoulder to check that the men hadn't broken in yet, "They've got torches and pistols! Father, why are the here?"

Of course, I knew the answer perfectly well. With a town as small and primitive as mine, nearly everyone was an avid believer of the Lord and of the abolishment of all things evil. The gossiping masses had made no point to keep their accusations of my mother's witchcraft to themselves. My parents evidently knew it too, as they stiffened in fear. My father grabbed my small, 14-year-old hand and made me look him straight in the eye.

"Arthur, you listen to me," he had said, his green eyes boring into my own, "You go out the back. If you hear or see anyone, run. They'll come for you after," the resounding crack of the front door being kicked open only increased the gravity of the moment, "Go, Art!"

I tore through the back hall like a mad bull through the streets of Spain. I couldn't see anything but a small, focused square directly in front of me; everything else was blurred. I could hear though. I could hear my mother's terrified scream and my father's enraged roar.

Two gunshots silenced the night.

So now, here I was. Three weeks later, but thirty years older. The night had settled again, looking like a perfect replica of _that_ night. The milky pale moon, smaller in its cycle than it had been, laughed at me from its inky canvas, the blackness dotted with twinkling stars like a painter had flecked the sky with gold.

A shift in movement beside me drew my attention from the sky. I smiled at the sight of the small child sleeping soundly beside me, nestled into an oversized jacket I'd found outside a tavern. This child wasn't a sibling, or even someone I'd known prior to my parents' deaths. He was a street orphan, like I was now.

His name, I'd gathered, was Francis. He was 10 years old, and had migrated from France with his mother, but she fell ill and died shortly after. Sadly, the superstitious nature of the townspeople had ruined another young life, as rumours about the boy had spread like wildfire. They told stories that the boy had been born on the night of December 24th, thus sealing his fate as an outcast. Whispers were passed of him being a werewolf, a "loup-garou". I wasn't sure how the French version on the myth had made it all the way to this small town in England. The common story was that werewolves were created if the child was the 7th son born into a family.

I couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of our situation: a "witch" and a "loup-garou", hiding out in an alleyway with the entire village population out to shoot us or burn us at the stake. Neither of us was even fifteen yet.

I must've been making too much noise, because a drowsy groan came from the little boy beside me. Francis blinked his tired, blue eyes and turned to look up at me.

"Arthur? Ça va?" he asked, frowning. He pulled himself onto his knees, stifling a yawn and asking me another gibberish question.

That was another problem in our situation: Francis couldn't speak English, and I most certainly didn't understand French. It was a constant struggle for communication, although we were usually able to convey what we needed just based off of situation and body language.

"There's nothing wrong," I told him, nudging his shoulder, "Go back to sleep."

He shook his head quickly, causing his dirty blonde hair to fly about his even dirtier face. I was sure that he didn't understand what I was saying, but he was a stubborn little boy, and didn't like being told to do anything.

"Non, non!" well, at least I got _that_, "Qu'est-ce que tu as? Je ne suis pas un enfant, tu sais-là!" he was speaking too fast for me to get even an inkling of what he was trying to say.

"Francis," I began, raising a hand to ward off his accusing glare, "You know that I can't understa-"

"Et _plus,_" he cut me off, "J'ai faim!" the little blonde looked at me like I was supposed to solve all of his problems. This was the worst part about Francis; he needed to be taken care of, and because of our language barrier, I wasn't able to help much.

"Pardon?" I asked, brushing my blonde fringe away from my eyes. The boy's eyes lit up for a moment, so I figured he must have understood.

"_Faim,_" he repeated, placing a hand on his small stomach. Our torn and dirty clothes didn't do much to hide the fact that we'd had very little to eat over the past weeks.

_Hungry,_ I thought, _he's telling me that he's hungry._ I was fairly pleased with myself, and tucked that phrase away in my mind for later use.

Pulling myself to my feet, I brushed off my trousers, which had been torn off just below the knees from climbing over the tall wooden fence at the back entrance to our alley-home. Francis jumped to his feet, his dirt-caked hands grabbing onto my arm. Personally, I figured this was so I could fulfill my purpose as a human shield if anyone were to see us.

The night was silent save for the cheers and shouting that echoed down the street from the tavern, and the air was crisp and clean. Even with the dramatically waning moon, the summer night provided enough light to see without difficulty. It was a good thing, too, since it was absolutely essential to our survival that we stayed hidden, and with the light there were shadows to hide in.

The dirt didn't even crunch beneath my feet as I skulked along the side of the building that lined the side of the alley. Francis trailed behind, trying to keep himself hidden behind my small body which, as much as it pains me to admit, was not much bigger than his.

Poking my head out from my spot in the shadows, I surveyed the street. It was empty. There was not a soul about for as long as my eyes could see. I gave Francis a quick nod to signal that the coast was clear.

"Pret?" he whispered. I'd heard him ask me this before, and I figured that it was some way of asking me if I was ready. I nodded.

"Let's go," I whispered back, taking the first steps as we darted across the open street. We made it quietly and quickly into the shadow of the next building, which was only three buildings away from the noisy tavern. That tavern was where we'd been getting out food. Around the back of the tavern in a small alleyway was a small pile of leftover food that was set out for stray dogs, and although we were _not_ beasts, we _were_ starving children.

"Keep very quiet," I reminded Francis as we started to make out way around the back of the buildings. He kept his hand firmly clutched around my wrist.

"Inquiète?" he asked, sounding confused. I shook my head.

"No, _quiet._ Silent," I said, hoping that he'd understand. Thankfully, he nodded his head. I breathed a sigh of relief; it could have been real trouble if he didn't get it.

"Ah. Silent," Francis agreed, keeping his eyes focused on the dark alley that was unfolding in front of us.

The space between the buildings was barely wide enough for an adult to squeeze through, so it was a perfect fit for tiny children like us. The low houses and establishments also provided plenty of shadows to lurk about in. It was actually quite scary, but at that point, I didn't really care. The thought of getting some food had immediately made me hungry, and my mind was presently focused on the goal.

Apparently, Francis had the same train of thought as me, because his stomach gave a hungry growl. I chuckled quietly while he looked at the ground sheepishly. Continuing on, I gave his hand a small tug, getting him to keep pace with me.

Finally, we made it to that small pile of food that had been dumped out behind the tavern. Most of it was still edible, simply meals that hadn't been finished. I rummaged through the garbage and found a mostly uneaten piece of meat that I handed to Francis. He took it quickly, smiling, before trying to stuff the entire piece into his mouth.

From our place out back, the roars of laughter from inside the building were much louder than they had been, and I could hear chairs and stools being scraped against the floor, and drink mugs being clanged against each other. I was a bit worried that someone would come out through the back door and discover us. That would undoubtedly lead to trouble, since nearly everyone in the village was after us. Thankfully, the door remained closed, and the only light that entered the alleyway was the sliver of yellow lamplight that snuck out from underneath the wooden door.

"Here you go," I said, handing Francis another piece of decent food I'd dug out of the pile. He shoved the chunk of...well, I think it was bread...into his mouth, along with everything else he'd been eating, "Careful. You're going to choke."

"Merci!" he mumbled through his full mouth, swallowing some of the food. I didn't really eat much except for a few bits and pieces; I gave the rest to the boy. Besides, I was more preoccupied with keeping an eye on the door.

And then, lo and behold, the worst possible scenario happened.

That door opened.

We both froze, as did the man who was halfway through the door with a bucket of garbage in his hand. The moment of shocked silence didn't last long, however, because the man quickly regained his senses, and screamed, "Demons!"

"Run!" I screamed, leaping to my feet and grabbing Francis' hand along the way. Francis spat out the food he had left, shrieking and running along after me.

"Don't let them get away! Everyone, after them!" I could hear that man's voice echoing down the black alley. Judging by the ruckus, he's gotten some of the other men who were in the tavern. Still, I knew that we had the advantage for now, for this alley was narrow, and it would take the bigger men longer to get through.

The loud chiming of a bell made my heart freeze over with dread. Someone had rung the town bell. Now everyone was going to be coming out of their houses to see what was the matter, and unlike the drunkards from the tavern, these men would have their pistols with them.

"Hurry, Francis! Come on!" I urged, tugging his along. He huffed, trying to keep up with my mad dash. The alley was quickly coming to an end, and soon we'd have no choice but to run back across the street. The street was even more dangerous now that there were men about. Even from here, I could hear them muttering and shouting, everyone getting the news about how the two monsters had been seen.

"Attendez! Attendez!" Francis whispered in between breaths. He was having a hard time keeping up with me. His legs were still shorter than mine, and each of my strides equalled nearly two of his.

Then, we broke out of the alleyway, stumbling into the open street. The shouts were immediately upon us. Of course, they could see us out here! But we didn't have any other choice, we had to keep running. A shot was fired and Francis screamed as a bullet went whizzing past him, lodging itself in the wall of a store.

"Crap," I cried, the voice coming out as more of a wheeze than actual words. My chest was heaving and my throat tasted like blood. Francis screamed louder when the men all turned to run after us. Growling, I pulled him along into the next alley.

Francis was crying loudly now. He'd already just narrowly escaped being shot, and we certainly weren't out of the woods yet. I couldn't let them catch up with us; I'd be damned if I let this kid get killed. It didn't matter whether I'd known him for three weeks or three years, we were both in the same boat. If I let him die, it'd be like letting myself get shot. We were in this together, and I was getting us out of this together. The crying boy was like the little brother I never had, and he depended on me.

"Faster, faster," I chanted under my breath, ducking around another corner.

It didn't matter where we were going, we just had to get away. The night still retained its beautiful calmness as we ran, our heavy breaths and the roars of the mob the only things piercing the silence. Another turn. Then another. Left. Right. Left. Right. I could still hear them behind us.

I nearly stumbled as we tore around a corner, and suddenly found ourselves out of the relative safety of the buildings. The tight-knit town had ended, leaving us out on the edge of the buildings. Trodden-down road led up to the stones that edged the swirling waters of the Channel, dotted with large crates and smaller barrels that would be loaded onto large ships and taken across the river to France. If we were lucky, there would have been a ship departing right then and there that we could stow away on and escape, but it was night time. There was no ships, and we most certainly were not lucky.

"Get down!" I ordered, shoving Francis in behind a group of barrels. He screamed at me, clutching my sleeve and refusing to stay put. I looked at him pleadingly, "Please, Francis! Stay down there, or they'll kill us both!"

My heart was pounding in my throat, and I could feel the hot prick of tears in the corners of my eyes. The men were still coming. I could hear them. They didn't know where we were at the moment, but soon, they would find us, and then it would all be over.

"Non, Arthur, s'il te plaît! Ne me laisses pas! Ne me laisses jamais!" Francis begged, his shoulders shaking with fear. I shut my eyes so that he wouldn't see me cry. I was older than him, and I had to be strong!

"I-I'm sorry..." I whispered, shaking my hand out of his grasp and dashing away from the barrels. I had to get them away from Francis' hiding place, no matter what.

"There he is!" One of the men shouted. I ducked behind a crate, stifling a whine as a bullet crashed into the cargo box beside me. If I came out, there would be no way they would miss me. There were no buildings, and the cruel, sadistic moon shone over everything, uninhibited by shadow.

The first tears made their way down my face. I didn't even try to wipe them off. If I was going to die, there was no reason to deny myself a good cry.

"Come out, you little piece of..." another man trailed off as they drew closer. I heard the telltale _click_ as a pistol was caulked. Maybe, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe, it would be painless, and I'd wake up and be with my mother and father again. I closed my welling eyes and smiled weakly; yeah, maybe everything wouldn't be so bad.

"Arthur!" Francis screamed, his high-pitched voice wild and hoarse. My eyes shot open. What was he doing?

The pistol went off, and I heard it ricochet off of something. Then there was footsteps, going further and further away. They were going after Francis. I stood up from behind the crate, shouting defiantly, "I'm over here!"

No bullets came this time. I guess the man didn't get enough time to reload. I got their attention though, and the group turned back my way. There were seven men. Three of which had guns; one pistol and two shotguns. I didn't back down when they turned on me, I couldn't. They were practically on top of where Francis had ducked back down behind.

"Come on!" I challenged, running behind another crate, "I'm this way!"

The horde obviously didn't take well to being mocked by a devil incarnate, as they all gave various noises of rage, moving after me. Luckily for me, there was a large row of crates lines up against the drop-off to the water's edge. I sprinted behind it, and the men followed suit on the other side. Making sure to keep nice and quiet, even with my laboured breathing, I turned on my heel and rocketed back in the opposite direction.

Francis was just poking his head over the barrels when I emerged from behind the crates. He looked at me with worry and relief, opening his mouth to say something. I slapped my hand over my mouth, and he closed his own. We had to be very quiet. I gestured to the spot on the ground next to me, and Francis started to weave his way out from between the barrels. He was halfway across to me when we heard the yells from the men. Apparently they'd discovered that I hadn't gone the way they thought I had, and that they'd been duped.

Francis froze, fear plastering itself across his dirt-streaked face. He looked to the direction the voices had come from, and then back to me, beginning to tremble.

"Run here!" I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. He listened, taking a couple shaky steps at first, before breaking into an all-out sprint. His eyes were firmly shut as he ran, a determined frown set on his young visage.

Unfortunately, running with his eyes shut wasn't the best idea. While it helped him block out what was happening around him, it also made it dangerous for him to run. He completely over judged the distance that was left, and ended up barreling into me, sending me stumbling backwards into a group of barrels. They tumbled over, landing in the water with loud splashes.

"Oh no," I whispered, knowing that the men would have definitely heard that. I turned my head in the other direction, searching for an escape route. What I saw made my heart fall all the way into my stomach. There were more. Another group of men was just coming out from between the buildings.

We were trapped.

And the others were coming back this way. I could still hear them, getting closer and closer, louder and louder. My eyes were so wide, they felt as though they might pop right out of their sockets. I was looking everywhere for a hiding place. That was when I felt a small hand grab a hold of my own. Gasping in slight fear, I looked down. Francis was facing the edge, looking out at the water. His eyes were just as wide as mine, and tears were streaming down his cheeks in torrents.

"Teddy, i-il faut que nous...nous avons besoin de..." he couldn't seem to find the right words to say. But I knew what he was getting at. Even if I didn't understand his language, it didn't take a genius to figure out what needed to be done.

"We need to...jump," I nodded, turning around so that I too was facing the swirling waters. Even with the moon's silver light, the water was pitch black. The fear stuck in my throat, and for a split second, I wasn't sure which I'd prefer: being shot by the villagers, or jumping into the Channel.

They were practically right behind us now. It was now or never. Keeping a firm hold on Francis' hand, I jumped. I screwed my eyes shut as we hit the water, being swallowed up by the black liquid.

A bullet was shot uselessly through the water, and the shock of it almost made me lose my air. Francis wasn't so lucky, as his mouth opened in a scream that was muted by the water, his air escaping in a flurry of bubbles. I kicked hard, propelling us up to the surface. We broke through, coughing and sputtering, but very much alive.

"Back down!" I told Francis, and we dove again, swimming out to get away from the shoreline. There was no way I was letting either of us get shot when we were so close to escaping.

The next time we broke the surface seemed like hours later. We could still hear the angry shouting of the men on the shore, but none of them seemed brave, or stupid enough to follow us into the water. We stayed there for a moment, arms clutching to the wet fabric of each other's shirts, just staring back at the land. The waves bobbed us up and down lazily, almost lulling me to sleep. My legs were just the slightest bit numb, for the water was still cold, even during summer.

"Francis, let's go," I said, kicking my feet and propelling us further away. The barrels that we had knocked into the water earlier were floating nearby, and I grabbed one, pulling Francis over so he could hold onto it too.

We stayed there, cold and shivering, for a long time. We didn't get too tired, thanks to the support of the floating barrel, but we were weary. Too much had happened for _me_ to process, let alone little Francis. But as the current carried us further and further away, we knew. We knew that somehow, our lives were better this way, away from the people who tried to kill us, who called us monsters.

Even into the next day, as more land appeared on the Southern horizon, we clutched onto that barrel. The shore grew larger and larger, and the bright sun, nothing like that pale, fake moon, opened our eyes to a land covered in green. Our feet touched the sandy ground and we let go of that barrel for the first time in hours, our legs trembling under the newfound weight of our bodies. We barely made it out of the water when we collapsed, falling to our backs and staring up at the wide expanse of blue sky above us.

This was a new place. This could be a new beginning. No more hiding in the shadows, and no more eating out of scrap piles. We didn't have to be monsters, witches and werewolves, and I was more than happy to leave the superstitions of my village behind.

I looked over at Francis to find him smiling brightly at the sky. The water had washed the dirt from his face and hair. He looked like a little boy again. He started to laugh, and I couldn't help but join in. We were back in his home country, we were clean and young, but most of all...

We were free.

**-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-xo-**

**Kinda uplifting ending for a generally depressing fic, eh?**

**For some reason, just thinking about Francis' accent when he says "Arthur" just makes my heart melt. "Ar-toor"**

**Oh, and all that witchcraft and lycanthropy stuff is real. Projects come in handy sometimes.**


End file.
